


A Drop of Flame for a Parched Tongue

by MargaretKire



Series: Between the Darkness and the Door [2]
Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Both Frank and Matt POV, Brief memories of Frank's family, Canon Diversion after Season 2 Episode 4, Canon Typical Violence, Coffee, Everyone feels guilt about everything, Feelings, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Matt is extremely sensitive to touch, Safe and happy dog, Second intallment, like really really sensitive, recovering from injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-01
Updated: 2016-04-01
Packaged: 2018-05-30 15:15:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6429592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MargaretKire/pseuds/MargaretKire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Matt goes out to erase the pleasure he's just experienced, only to get in over his head. Frank frets over Red and has all these feelings he doesn't know what to do with.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Drop of Flame for a Parched Tongue

Sirens wailed unbearably loud, screeching their banshee cries, echoing up the sides of the buildings. Matt crouched on the rooftop trying to get his bearings. All he could feel was the burning engulfing his entire body. Fire in his fingertips and the soft flesh in between. Fire in his lower lip where the feeling of Castle’s thumb still lingered, tasting of clean flesh, of a salt that was uniquely his own. The ghost of pressure on his tongue. The calloused thumb pad and smooth short nail. The large knob of knuckle against his lips…

Another siren blared suddenly, making Matt jump. He was too distracted to listen clearly to the sounds of Hell’s Kitchen. Flitting from rooftop to rooftop, he attempted to get some sense of the city’s mood. Usually, he could get a read on the pulse of his city, feel the tensions and the danger. He was able to instinctively judge where he was needed.

All of that had changed in an instant the moment he’d touched Castle’s mouth. Even after an hour of near constant running and scaling buildings while he did frantic rounds of his territory, Matt couldn’t get the feeling of fire out of his veins. His head was pounding with thoughts of the man he’d left back in his apartment. Already he wanted to go back for more. Already he regretted not letting Castle grab his arm to pull him down.

Castle said he’d wait for him. That he’d be there when Matt got back.

Matt shook his head, trying to clear it. This was like the time he’d lost his hearing, although that had been an absence of sensation, a terrible void of nothing. The world had lost shape and Matt was in a terrifying empty sea, reduced to his weaker senses of touch and smell. This though, this was the opposite: a great raging storm of sensation, a whirlpool dragging him down into his own body as his senses flooded him with stimulation. Everything was too sharp, too loud.

Both the silence from the gunshot wound and the overwhelming flood had been caused by the same man. Two polar opposites, like the man himself.

Matt needed a mission, something to do with his hands in order to erase the delicate fire of pleasure still thrumming through them. He needed to re-purpose them, to turn them once more into the precise, deadly instruments of a vigilante. Cool the fire. Cover it up with pain.

When Matt finally heard a cry of desperation, he felt relief, instantly followed by guilt. He should not be happy there was a victim out there. Certainly not because it served his own selfish ends. But he was secretly filled with the joy of having a purpose, and it shamed him.

He dropped swiftly into the street once he’d positioned himself overhead on a fire escape, cutting off the man with a knife who was attempting to rob an elderly couple. Matt heard all three of them gasp when he appeared suddenly in front of them, and he realized very quickly that the mugger was little more than a desperate kid with an addiction that had gone unfulfilled for too long. Matt reached out and took the knife from the trembling fingers and the boy took off. Matt let him go. He checked in with the couple- heart rates high, but steady. Breathing elevated but no panic. Satisfied, Matt scaled the roof and began his rounds again.

Any other night he would have called himself lucky for such a peaceful evening. Tonight, though, he strained his ears for any hint of something more dangerous than a mugger or purse snatcher. He skirted farther and farther outside his normal rounds, pushing the boundaries.

At last he found what he was longing for: a real fight with bullets, fists, and blood. Two gangs were clashing in an alleyway, and Matt jumped into the middle of it, punching and flipping in the air to add more force to his kicks. He located the three biggest guys and fought them desperately, repeatedly smashing his delicately burning fingers into their rough jaws, until finally, covered in blood, he felt more pain than pleasure. His head started to clear.

That’s when he realized just how intense the gang war was becoming. He heard more members from each side come roaring up on their bikes, the engines blanking out Matt’s ability to echo-locate or even hear the heartbeats of his attackers. In a second they were on him, big fists smashing his face. The motorcycle engines finally died as the owners ran into the fray.

That’s when Matt heard the knife. It was already slicing through the air, aimed at his heart. He was able to twist just enough to the right and the blade caught into his left arm instead, but rather than ricocheting harmlessly off the reinforced fabric, the wickedly sharp blade ripped at a seam and slipped in.

Matt screamed at the sudden pain. He had been cut before, worse that this. Why did this hurt so much? He couldn’t block it out. He tried. He fought, and in the end he got away from the gang scuffle, but he was not alright. The pain was so much worse than usual.

It had cost him a lot to get free of his assailants. His knee was aching, his nose was bleeding everywhere, his knuckles ripped to shreds. At least that feeling of buzzing delight was gone. Replaced with agony. It was what he deserved anyhow. It was better.

He landed on his own fire escape with a groan, too ashamed to go inside. He could hear Castle’s heartbeat, knew he was safe. It sounded like he had been asleep, but Matt’s rough landing outside the window had startled him awake. He heard the spike in his heart’s rhythm caused by a rush of adrenaline.

Matt listened as Castle shifted on the couch and stood up, the advance of crutches making their way to the bedroom. His heart had slowed but was still slightly faster than normal. Matt heard Champ shift from where he had snuck back up onto the bed during Matt’s absence. The dog gave a small whine as Castle entered the room.

“It’s okay, boy,” Castle said in his deep voice, scratchy from interrupted sleep. Matt squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his fists until the knuckles flared in pain, banishing any residual soft warmth that voice had conjured up.

***

Frank could see the red costume through the window and confirmed that the sound, which had startled him from his awkward sleep still half sitting up on the couch, was indeed Red slamming onto the fire escape from above. The window was open, but he hadn’t dropped back in. He was just sitting there, hunched over.

Champ whined at him as he passed the bed, and Frank soothed the dog absently. Looking back at the man on the fire escape, Frank felt a small jolt. He was so still. So still and...covered in blood. Frank angled himself with some difficulty until his torso was far enough out the window that he could reach him. Blood was everywhere. It covered his face…

Red’s face. Blood. His wife. Frankie. Lisa…their faces gone. Only blood remaining. The carcasses of his loved ones. Left on display in the car he’d bought for the family.

Frank was shaking. _No no no_ …Red moved. He groaned and turned his head slightly, tried to say something, but failed. _Alive_ , Frank thought, some sanity returning. _Not dead. Alive_...

“Red,” Frank choked. “You with me, buddy?” Red tried to speak again, couldn’t. He made a rough jerky movement and slid towards Frank who grabbed him under the arms and hauled him inside, grunting at the strain on his back from the twisted angle and Red’s dead weight.

He half-laid, half-dropped him on the floor. He collapsed next to him and began wrestling off his mask, trying not to make the bleeding worse. Not an easy task.

Frank had seen so much death, so much blood spilled by his own hand. Yet there was something about seeing Red like this, beaten within an inch of his life, helpless and in pain, that made Frank’s stomach flip. This was no hard-hearted murderer. This was a man who refused to kill. Frank may consider Red a half-measure, but he was...noble. Stupid. But noble. And someone, several someones, had cut him up and punched him until his face was almost unrecognizable.

For a moment, Frank wanted to do something extremely useless, like cradle the other man’s head in his hands and cry. He told himself sternly that was exactly what he wasn’t going to do. That he was going to man the fuck up and go get the medical supply kit and practice some good old-fashioned field medicine. And once Red was safe and alive and coked to the gills on morphine, Frank was going to finish that damn bottle of whiskey.

Between the crutches and Red’s mostly unconscious dead weight, patching him up took a long time. Once he finally had the blood mopped off his face, he saw that most of it had come from his nose, which didn’t seem to be broken, thanks to the mask, though there was a nasty cut across the bridge from the nose guard. The worst of the injuries was the deep knife-wound in Red’s left arm. The arteries were safe, though just barely.

Frank gave Red a shot of morphine before he set to work stitching him up. He tried to banish the thought of Red’s hypersensitivity as he carefully forced the curved needle through the sensitive flesh of his inner arm. In and out, pulling the ragged wound closed, cutting the black threads as each stitch was tied off.

 _I’m sorry,_ he heard himself mumbling, _I’m sorry, I’m sorry_.

He finally had Red more or less patched up. There was no way he was going to get him on the bed without hurting him more, so he found a comforter in the closet and folded it in half as a makeshift cot. Laying it beside Red’s prone body, he was able to wrestle him onto it without too much jostling. Then Frank sat in a heap next to him on the floor, looking him over carefully, making sure he’d gotten all the bleeding stopped, that he hadn’t overlooked any broken bones.

Champ whimpered, crawling over toward them along the floor, sensing that something was wrong, whining at the smell of blood. He curled next to Red on the comforter, not crowding him too much, and Frank allowed it after giving him one stern look that said _Don’t move_. Red stirred from deep within the morphine haze, reaching out weakly and resting one hand on the dog’s smooth flank.

Frank watched the movement with sorrow, his heart giving a small wounded lurch at the sight of Red’s hand. The flesh that had been so smooth and white just hours before was raw and bloody. The raised skin of his knuckles was nearly torn away, as if scraped off by a power sander. Frank took the hand that was closest to him, telling himself that he was just double-checking for fractures. Had he really felt those delicate fingers on his tongue? Had any of that actually happened, or was it just some fevered dream he’d had after falling asleep on the couch?

He held Red’s hand carefully, as if it were fragile, afraid that if he moved he’d crush him. No, this was all wrong. Red was a fighter like himself, tough and sinewy. He wasn’t some porcelain creature that would shatter under his caress. How many times had he hit that face, hurt him, caused him to bleed? Hadn’t Red looked just like this the first time after they’d fought? Only then it was worse. He’d shot him in the head and left him on the rooftop alone. Blind and alone…

Frank hadn’t intended to kill him then, or later, but he had hurt him even worse than this. And now he knew the truth. That the pain he caused him was so much more than what Red could ever do to him. Frank with his normal senses. Senses not heightened within an inch of madness.

He was to blame for this, Frank thought. He had trapped Red inside his own body with no way out, his sensitive skin seeking pain as a release from the overwhelming foreignness of pleasure.

 _You bastard_ , Frank told himself, _you selfish bastard_. He gently laid Red’s hand back on his chest and the other man let out a small moan. He lay down on his side on the hard floor, leaning his head on his hand as he watched Red’s breathing return to normal.

The terrible thought occurred to him that he had gone from a man who had nothing to lose, to a man with two things he wished to protect, both sleeping soundly a few feet away from him.

 _Dammit_ , he swore at himself. Now he had something to worry about again. Something that could hurt him the way blood and bullets never could. He glared at Matt’s face. _I didn’t sign up for this_ , he thought with self pity. He could just go. Hobble out the door on his crutches, get a cab...go...somewhere.

With a sigh, Frank rolled onto his back, and forced himself to pass out. He even forgot to drink the rest of the whiskey.

***

Matt wasn’t sure where he was at first. He was lying on a comforter on the floor. The space smelled like his apartment, but it also didn’t. It smelled like Castle and Champ and morphine. It smelled like blood and coffee.

He moved just a tiny bit, intending to make a sound that he could hear reverberate off the walls to make sure he was, in fact, on the floor of his bedroom. The sound he ended up making was a soft groan as pain flooded every recess of his body. Well, at least he could hear the distinct dimensions of his room.

His head was splitting. A dim roar sounded for a moment in his ears as his hearing washed in and out sickeningly for a moment. Matt braced himself in sudden terror, waiting for the nothingness to wash over him, for the world to disappear into silence. Instead, his hearing flickered back to life, staticy at first, then clearer until it was normal.

There was shifting in the other room and two sets of footsteps approached. One set slow. Tap, thud, tap, thud. The second set was much faster on four legs and reached him first.

“Champ,” Castle growled. “Stay.” Matt heard the disappointed huff as the dog settled on his haunches near his feet. Then the crutches clattered as Castle set them on the floor and collapsed next him. Matt heard the rattle of a pill bottle and Castle pulling a glass of water over to him across the floorboards. “Think you can swallow some pain meds?”

Matt nodded, instantly regretting the movement. There was a crackle in his head, warning him that neither his head nor his hearing had fully recovered, and last night hadn’t helped matters any. He stilled for a moment, concentrated, and then slowly heaved himself onto one elbow. Castle waited patiently, his breath slow and steady, heartbeat thudding peaceful and strong.

When Matt’s head finally stopped spinning, he tried to hold out his left arm for the pills, and realized he couldn’t. It was bandaged and throbbing with a sharp pain..

“I think you’re going to have to sit up all the way so you can use your right hand,” Castle said. Matt nodded again and tried to obey, barely able to move through the pain. “Listen,” Castle said, “I didn’t give you any more morphine only because I thought you wouldn’t want it, but there’s plenty more. Let me put you under for the day, Red. You got the shit kicked out of you.”

“What else is new?” Matt asked, his voice raw. He sensed Castle flinch, but then sit still and wait for Matt to give him an answer. “No more morphine. I, um...don’t like to take it except out of absolute need. It messes with my senses, and I, uh, feel sorta lost when I’m on it,” he said, not sure that he wanted to admit that, but the opiate was still in his system, and making him a little too honest. _Careful_ , he told himself. _God, Matt, be careful_. He tried to struggle into a sitting position.

“Do you need help?” Castle asked. Matt suddenly realized that the other man was holding his breath. He hadn’t touched him at all, even though Matt was clearly struggling. If he had just reached out and propped him up, he would have accepted it without thinking. Being asked first, however, meant he had to think about it, and realized that he needed to tell him no, even though he wanted the help.

“I can manage,” he answered, wrenching his arm a bit, but finally sitting up on his own. He reached an open hand out for the pills. Three dropped into his palm, Castle taking care not to brush him with his fingers, and then a water glass was put in his hand, also very carefully. Matt swallowed the pills and then finished the glass of water. He was suddenly so thirsty. Castle was prepared and he heard him grab a pitcher from an end table that he must have pulled into the bedroom from the living room. He refilled Matt’s glass and he drank it down greedily.

They sat together for a bit, not saying anything, though it wasn’t an uncomfortable silence. Castle had cracked open the bedroom window, imitating Matt from the night they had shared whiskey together. He could hear a very gentle rain falling, the noise of tires on the wet street.

The pills slowly began to work, and he could move a bit better. He slowly made his way to his feet, and realized that he was still dressed in the Daredevil uniform except for the upper section of armor that Frank had removed to tend to his arm. He tested his weight on his sore knee, and was relieved when he could at least limp around. He felt a brief pang of sympathy for Castle’s foot, before he slowly made his way to the bathroom.

He wished Castle would help him, but having to ask made it impossible. He wouldn’t ask. Castle seemed just as determined not to touch him without permission and just gave a small huff of alarm when Matt stumbled before regaining his balance.

Once he was alone in the bathroom, Matt took a deep breath trying to center himself. The pills were helping but they weren’t meant to deal with Matt’s level of sensitivity to pain. They could only do so much. It was up to Matt to do the rest, and normally he could, but, well, for whatever reason now he couldn’t.

He smiled when he discovered the clean clothes Castle had piled on top of the cabinet for him. He cleaned up carefully, avoiding getting his stitches wet. He had to wash his face very carefully because his left cheek was badly bruised. Thanks to the meds the swelling had gone down a bit, but the skin was still tender.

At the moment, what hurt the worst were his hands. The skin was completely gone from his knuckles, making every shift in his hands scream in agony. This pain was one he was used to, and normally something he could block out. Except he couldn’t. Not after last night. His brain seemed to have opened up to sensation again, and wasn’t about to shut it down just because Matt had been a fool and gotten himself beaten up by a bunch of thugs.

Clean and dressed in fresh clothes, Matt hobbled down the hallway and sank into the couch in the living room. Champ was instantly beside him, velvety head on his knee.

“Hey there, boy,” Matt said softly, stroking his wedge-shaped head. The dog heaved a sigh of contentment. Castle settled into the only other seat that still had a cushion, and they sat in silence for several more minutes, Castle sipping coffee and Matt petting Champ.

He could almost hear the words forming in Castle’s mind. His heart was slowly picking up the way it had before Castle had thanked him for not turning him over to the police. He took a breath.

“Red-”

There was a knock on the door. Matt jumped. He had been so focused on Castle he hadn’t heard the footsteps in the hallway.

“It’s a friend,” Matt whispered to Castle. “I’ll go talk to him, while you, um…”

“I’ll go hide under the bed, shall I?” Castle whispered back, and Matt couldn’t tell if relief or irritation weighed heavier in his voice.

“I think closing the door to the bedroom will be sufficient,” Matt responded. “Leave Champ. He needs to be walked by somebody…” He sensed Castle nodding and then he was making his way as quietly as possible to Matt’s room, sliding the rolling door closed behind him.

Matt did a quick mental check, wondering if there was anything in the living room or kitchen that would give his house-guest away. One coffee cup. He could claim that as his. Castle’s original clothes had been incinerated in the basement. It was only the dog, and Matt could handle that.

He made his way to the door, and opened it to a very patient Foggy.

“Matt!” He exclaimed immediately. Matt winced, realizing that Castle now knew his name. That is, if he hadn’t been snooping around the apartment and figured out already. “You look _terrible_.”

“You should see the other guys,” Matt responded easily, leading Foggy back to the living room. Champ’s ears picked up from where he lounged on the sofa, deciding that the new human needed a warning growl. Foggy jumped. “It’s okay, Champ. He’s a friend.” The pitbull continued to eye the new arrival, but Matt sensed him relax.

“Why do you have a vicious pitbull on your couch?” Foggy demanded. Matt snorted, wondering what Foggy’s reaction would be to what he had in his bedroom.

“He’s hardly vicious,” Matt retorted.

“Oh yeah? And where did he get those fighting scars? Seeing eye dog school?”

“You just need to give him a chance,” Matt smiled, handing Foggy the leash.

“Oh no, I am not walking that thing.”

“He needs to go out, and I won’t be able to manage it for at least a day…”

“So now I’m your personal dog walker?” Foggy was caving, Matt could feel it, so he just smiled his ‘ _please help a blind guy out_ ’ smile and Foggy gave in. Grumbling, he hooked the leash to Champ’s collar while Matt stroked the dog’s head soothingly.

“This is a friend, Champ. Not a snack,” Matt instructed.

“Ha ha, very funny,” Foggy replied grumpily, walking the pitbull to the door.

“Thanks,” Matt said sincerely, and heard Foggy sigh before closing the door behind him.

He limped back to the living room and fell onto the couch, leaning back and squeezing his eyes shut. He heard the door to the bedroom slide open and Castle clicked slowly back to his chair. Matt could hear him settle in and pick up his coffee. There was a silence again, not as comfortable as the last one. Again he could hear Castle’s steady heartbeat pick up the smallest bit.

“So,” Castle said at last. “Matt, huh?”

***

Red’s friend was a quick and efficient dog walker, and it was only twenty minutes later that the guy was knocking on the door again, Champ at his heels. Frank made himself scarce and sat on the foot of the bed, listening to the friends through the door. He wondered how Red felt about Frank discovering so much about him through the careless chatter of his friend.

 _A goddamned lawyer_. Well that made a weird sort of sense, though it made Red’s decision to harbor him all the more inconceivable. If he was a lawyer, though, what was he doing in this neighborhood? Surely he could afford something in a nicer area. Frank continued to eavesdrop, as the friend prattled on about their cases, oblivious to, or ignoring, Red’s attempts to get him to leave.

It sounded like they were taking on every sob-story case that came knocking and were doing the work mostly for free. Frank shifted uncomfortably on the foot of the bed. He really didn’t appreciate having yet another reason to respect Red. Helping little old ladies to keep family homes, or disabled vets keep their kids - all grueling work for no pay - was damned noble. Frank gritted his teeth. He really didn’t need to be hearing this right now.

The guy finally left, with the promise he’d be back later to walk the dog and pick up some groceries. When Red asked for a bag of good quality coffee, the friend seemed to think he was crazy, but gave in.

When the coast was clear, he hobbled back out into his living room, making the decision to leave one crutch behind. His coffee was way too cold to drink at this point, so he busied himself making another pot, before finally turning and addressing Red.

“So I’m the guest of some broke-ass lawyer, eh, Red?”

“‘Fraid so.”

“You must be pretty bad at your job to be holed up in this neighborhood.”

Red snorted. “I guess you could say that.”

Frank poured himself a cup of fresh coffee. “You want any of this?”

“Sure,” Red replied. With just the one crutch, Frank had his right hand free and was able to get a full mug to Red without too much incident. Then he started poking around in the cupboards and fridge.

“You don’t have much in the way of food,” Frank complained.

“Not with the way you eat.”

Frank laughed shortly, thinking he’d hardly get fat on the scant amount of food Red got by on. He pulled out the half loaf of bread that was left, the carton of eggs, and milk. He was thinking of just making scrambled eggs and toast when he discovered small jar of honey in the cupboard. Poor-man’s French toast it was, then.

It wasn’t until he had the first battered slices sizzling in butter in a pan that he thought to look over at Red. He was sitting right at the edge of the couch, his head cocked to the side like a confused bird, a small wrinkle between his eyebrows.

“Are you...cooking?” He asked in such a genuinely shocked voice, that Frank couldn’t help but bark a laugh at him again.

“Not as useless as I look,” Frank said, trying not to feel weird saying that to a blind guy. He slid the finished slices on a plate and opened the honey. “You eat these, while I make some more.”

He didn’t get much of an argument. Red hobbled over to the table with his half empty coffee. Frank dribbled the honey onto the French toast, and before he realized what he’d done, he’d drawn the long swish and two dots of a smiley face. He froze. He’d done it automatically, just like he used to for his kids. Lisa and Frankie would laugh every time, even when they got too old for such nonsense. They liked it when he was home and made breakfast for them. If they were having French toast or pancakes, they always got smiley faces.

Frank blinked hard several times and considered erasing the face with a fork. In the end he just handed Red the plate, fork, and knife, turning back to the stove to make some slices for himself. He carefully added the honey in a boring crisscross pattern to his own breakfast. By the time he sat down opposite Red, he’d eaten all of his, even scraping the honey off the plate with his fork. He definitely didn’t get enough to eat.

“Not bad,” was the comment on Frank’s cooking skills.

Frank cleaned up and they spent the time waiting for Red’s pal to come back just sort of hanging out around the apartment. Red didn’t have a lot in the way of entertainment, so Frank played with Champ and took a nap to help pass the time. When he woke up from his light sleep, Frank sat in the living room while Red traced his fingers over his Braille transcripts that the lawyer guy had left for him.

It was interesting to watch him read. Red didn’t need to look down at his fingers, and it was a little disconcerting to see him with his head tilted up while he took in the information on the page in front of him. It was also strangely soothing. The apartment was quiet except for the low hum of traffic outside. Frank imagined he could hear Red’s fingers skimming over the document. He wondered who’s hero he was becoming by taking it on when no one else would.

He caught Red shaking his head a few times as a frown appeared on his face. Once Red even put a hand up to his head and started to look panicked for just a moment, before his face eventually cleared and he went back to work.

“You okay, Red?”

“Um, huh? Oh, yeah, I’m okay. Just a headache. I need to take some more pain meds.” Frank got them for him and then they both resumed their positions in opposite corners of the small living room.

Frank still felt a pang when he looked at his fingers, the knuckles so raw that there weren’t even scabs, just a shiny layer of deep red skin. He knew that feeling. Though his knuckles weren’t in that bad of shape at the moment, they had been before. But he had a normal, perhaps even slightly diminished, pain response. Red was an exposed nerve. Frank could imagine the self discipline it took him to be able to fight time and time again.

Red didn’t _seem_ to have a pain obsession, but then maybe he did. That didn’t seem right though. Not an obsession. More like a deep-seated belief that his own pain wasn’t important, didn’t matter. That it was the pain of others that he needed to pay attention to, try and fix.

Frank allowed himself to find it ironic for a moment that Red, with his hypersensitivity, chose to fight with his fists, while he himself, a much less tender specimen, hid behind the scope of a rifle and took his justice from a distance. He let his eyes linger on Red’s hands for awhile, and it took him a moment to realize they had stopped moving.

“Foggy’s here,” Red said, and a moment later there was a knock on the door. Frank hid in the bedroom again, and the same pattern from the morning played itself out, with the guy coming back to chat a bit after walking the dog, Red trying ineffectively to get rid of him.

That guy really cared about Red. He obviously knew about his vigilante double life, and didn’t seem to approve. Well, he was right to worry. Someday Red was going to pick a fight that he wouldn’t walk away from. The thought sent an unwelcome chill up his spine.

Red finally got the chatty little fellow out of the door, and turned back to unpack the grocery bags as Frank made his way over to inspect the haul, already hungry for dinner. He was just checking over the coffee, when he saw Red set down the container he was holding and grip the counter edge. His face had gone deathly pale and his eyes were wide with sudden panic. He was tilting his head as though trying to listen for something, and was clearly getting disoriented. Stumbling backward, he flung an arm out to try and catch himself, but he seemed to have lost his bearings. Frank just managed to grab him and set him on the floor before he fell and cracked his head.

“Castle,” Red said, his voice sounding strange.

“I’m right here, Red,” Frank replied, trying to keep the panic out of his own voice. He instinctively knew that it had been his shot to the head that had caused this. It would have been a risk for anyone, though Frank thought he had been careful, getting a crack off to knock him out but not kill him. That was before he knew he was fighting a blind man with extremely heightened senses. Combined with the beating he’d received last night, he seemed to be having some sort of seizure. Frank had no idea what to do, He didn’t touch him, worried he’d somehow make it even worse.

“Castle?” Red said again. Real panic set into Frank’s stomach, a sickening wave of realization hitting him.

“Red? Can you hear me?”

“Frank!” Red was starting to freak out now, twisting and trying to get up, reaching out blindly, groping for something. Frank grabbed his arms to steady him and settle him back into a sitting position against the kitchen cabinet. Red gasped but settled back. Frank had forgotten about the stitches in his arm, and Red’s face was twisted in misery.

“ _Oh God_ , I’m sorry,” Frank said, even though he realized Red couldn’t hear him. What should he do? Should he get him to the hospital, call an ambulance? Frank figured Red wouldn’t want that. It would be difficult to explain the stitch-up job in his arm if he was supposed to be a simple lawyer. A simple _blind_ lawyer.

Frank needed to get him help though. If Red lost his hearing...Frank shook his head, refusing to think about it. He decided to get Red’s phone and call the guy that had just been here - Foggy? - and tell him Matt was in trouble. Then Frank could get out of the building by the time Foggy made it to the apartment…

He went to stand up, but Red gripped him tightly.

“Don’t leave me!” He was sweating and shaking.

“It’s okay, Red, I just need to get your phone…” Frank tried to stand up again. It was already a difficult task with his foot still bandaged up and in pain, but it became impossible when Red clung to him, refusing to let him go. “Okay, it’s okay,” Frank said soothingly, as much to himself as to Red.

He re-positioned himself so he was leaning against the cabinets next to Red’s trembling body. It was awkward because Red was still trying to hold onto him, afraid he was trying to leave. Frank took him as gently as possible and pulled him into his lap, cradling him against his chest. Red tensed for a moment before relaxing and winding his arms around him.

Frank shifted them a few times, until their weight was well-balanced and he could hold Red easily. He stroked his back slowly, comfortingly, like he had done with his children when they were sick or had woken up from a nightmare. Even though he knew Red couldn’t hear him, he still talked to him, thinking that maybe he could feel the vibrations from his voice.

Red’s breathing slowly began to return to normal. He was shaking less and his grip on Frank had loosened. He took a deep breath, then another. He gasped, paused, and then snapped his fingers.

“Frank?”

“I’m here.”

Relief flooded Red’s face. “I...I can hear you.” He collapsed against Frank again, the aftershocks of his terror hitting him. Frank could tell he was holding back tears of relief and anxiety. He just stayed relaxed and calm, holding Red gently until he pulled away with a sudden jerk, as though realizing that he was cuddling with the Punisher on his kitchen floor.

“Sorry!” He said trying to scramble up. He nearly lost his balance again.

“Whoah, slow down,” Frank said, steadying him by grasping his wrists as gently as he could, not wanting to hurt the knife-wound on his upper arm again. “Let’s get you to the couch, okay?”

Red nodded, and they both slowly stood up. Frank grabbed his single crutch and followed Red over to the couch, noticing that although a little unsteady, he seemed to have regained most of his balance. They both collapsed on the sofa. Red held his hands over his face.

“You okay?” Frank asked, worried he was slipping into another episode.

“Yeah, I’m okay,” Red said, dropping his hands to reveal a flushed face. He was either overheated from the attack or...blushing with embarrassment. Oh. “I’m sorry,” he said again, his voice a low whisper.

“Is this the first time this has happened?” Frank asked. Red sighed.

“No. That was actually the third time, though it didn’t last as long this time. That’s something at least.”

“You’ve got to see a doctor.”

“I will,” Red sighed. I have an arrangement for stuff like this.”

“When were the other two times you lost your hearing?” Frank asked.

“The first one was right after you…” Red gestured to his forehead, “... you know. Shot me in the head. The following day I was blanked out for close to eight hours.” Frank swallowed. “The second time was after we fell through that glass thing on the roof.”

“I remember,” Frank said. “You seemed to just black out. You couldn’t find me to throw a punch. I was was able to walk right up to you and knock you out.” Red grunted.

“It was better until last night, when I went and got myself punched in the head repeatedly,” Red confessed. He rubbed his hands over his face, and once again Frank’s attention snapped to those raw red knuckles. The bruises had begun pooling on the back of his hands like ink blots.

“I’m so sorry, Matt,” Frank said. “It’s… it’s my fault. I shot you and caused the damage in the first place. And last night I… was selfish. I took advantage of you and drove you out before you were ready.”

***

Castle was apologizing to him. Matt’s head was finally feeling like it was going to stay on, and now Castle had called him _Matt_ and was apologizing.

“Wait,” Matt said, “what do you mean _you_ took advantage of _me_?” He was seriously confused. “I mean, if anything… I took advantage of _you_.” They sat in silence for a moment, an awkward realization creeping over both of them.

“But,” Castle tried after moment, “you took off afterwards like you regretted it. And then you came back bleeding everywhere, your arm slashed to ribbons. I mean, if I hadn’t, uh, done that to you, you wouldn’t have gotten into that fight.”

“I overreacted,” Matt mumbled. He did not want to talk about this. “I, um, was trying to beat the pleasure out of my hands… I may have gotten a little carried away.”

“You were trying to get rid of the pleasure?”

Matt nodded miserably.

“Don’t you think you deserve to feel good once in awhile?” Castle sounded as though he were really trying to understand. There was no mockery in his voice. Matt gave a short, humorless laugh.

“You’re a Catholic. I shouldn’t have to explain this to you,” Matt tried to joke, nervous about where this conversation was heading. Castle was so near he could feel his body heat. The memory of being held was seared into his mind. He wanted that again, feeling safe and protected. Really held for the first time since… _No, No, absolutely not. Don’t go there, Matt, for fuck’s sake_.

“Did you… _like_ what I did to you last night?”

Matt swallowed. Hard. It didn’t help. They were talking about this. Why were they talking about this? He waited. Maybe Castle would take back the question somehow, not make him answer it. The silence stretched on. He took a shaky breath.

“Yes,” he whispered, his voice raspy and desperate. There was a pause. Castle seemed to be holding his breath.

Then, quietly, “Do you want me to do it again? I mean… can I touch you? Do you even want me to?”

Matt’s body was already beginning to overwhelm him just listening to Castle’s deep rumble. This time was different. Castle was giving him a clear choice. Matt wasn’t so far gone yet that he had no self control, though he did secretly wish that Castle would just to reach out and make the decision for him. It would have been easier to accept… and easier to shift the blame. This time he had a choice, and would clearly have the responsibility - and control - of that choice. Would that be enough to help him regain focus afterwards, to not get stuck inside his own body?

He could just tell Castle to drop it, and they could go back to how they had been today. Carefully avoiding physical contact, but otherwise friendly. As normal as possible under the circumstances.

Matt could feel himself begin to shake. It wasn’t enough. Not after that fire. Not after being held like that just a few minutes before.

He needed to tell Castle to leave. It had been difficult already, keeping his senses clear of him, but now it was impossible. He would send him away. Then his life could continue on as it had been. He’d fight bad guys at night and help the down-and-out during the day. He’d make excuses to not get close to anyone because he needed to protect them from who he really was. His apartment would be empty. His bed would be empty. Just like it always had been, day after day, until that one wrong move on the street, that one second he failed to hear the bullet or the knife… and then it would be over.

Or…

“Yes,” Matt said, still trembling, unable to reign it in. “Yes, please, I want you to touch me.”

The steady heartbeat next to him on the couch jolted and picked up. Castle’s breath was getting shallower, faster. Still he waited.

“Are you sure, Matt?” That voice saying his name shot electricity through his spine, sending feelers of warmth down his thighs and across his belly.

Matt leaned forward, careful of his arm, mindful of Castle’s injuries. They were both in such rough shape. He smiled to himself at the absurdity of their situation, and then banished such thoughts from his mind.

He cupped Castle’s face with his battered hands, feeling the texture of his stubbly jaw and throat. He gently positioned Castle’s head for the exact angle he wanted. Then, softly, he placed his mouth along the outline of that perfectly-shaped top lip. Matt’s bottom lip slotted into Castle’s slightly parted mouth, and just like that, Matt had complete access to the most divine texture he’d ever experienced.  

He began sucking with a light pressure, just enough to fully feel the flesh of that lip between his, to make the blood rush to the spot, beginning to swell slightly. He could felt Castle’s breath starting to go ragged, as if he kept forgetting how to use his lungs, huffing out and dragging in a breath, only to hold it again.

Matt pressed against Castle’s mouth, slowly and firmly working to taste his upper lip, adding to the pressure, the friction. He was still cupping his head, and his fingers worked over the strong cheeks, softly exploring him in a lazy imitation of the night before. He let his fingers trail up and down Castle’s throat, pausing to circle just under the collar of his t-shirt - Matt’s t-shirt - before traveling back up to his face. The entire time he kept that lip gently locked in his, feeling the burning shockwaves of pleasure radiate from that one spot of intense contact. A lifeline thrown to him when he needed it most.

Matt had his eyes closed as they kissed. He wasn’t sure why, though it seemed to help him concentrate more, not worrying about Castle seeing his unfocused stare. He could sense Castle’s eyes flickering shut, only to open again, watching him.

Even though Matt had given him permission, Castle wasn’t touching him. He had one hand on the back of the couch, the other on his own knee. Matt felt Castle reach for him several times, only to check himself at the last minute. He was trying to let Matt have the control, though it didn’t seem to be coming very naturally to him. Matt smiled a bit at that thought, and kissed him harder.

He slid his lip down over the spot he’d been caressing, now hot and swollen from his administrations, and slipped his tongue into Castle’s eager mouth. Castle moaned, and in that instant Matt’s control dissolved, evaporating in the intense fire that swept through him. The joined sensations of Castle’s hot mouth and the feeling of the moan vibrating into him, made his lips and tongue radiate fire.

Matt began moaning uncontrollably, pressing forward. Castle seemed to sense the loss of his control, the surrender as the pleasure washed through him. He finally moved his hands to him, gathering Matt up into his strong arms, dragging him into his chest, holding him so their breastbones were pressed together. He cradled Matt’s head and kissed him deeply, setting off fire in every inch of his mouth.

***

Frank couldn’t believe how beautiful Red was. He was like holding pure energy. The sensations he felt were echoing back to Frank as his body hummed with electricity. He kissed him deeper and deeper, pulling him in close and tight, until they were both taking shallow gasps for air, not willing to be parted for any length of time.

Red had started moaning when Frank had, as though that was the signal that it was okay to let himself go, and now he clung to Frank, keening desperately into his mouth. The pitch of the moaning was increasing, as was the urgency. The body in his arms began to tremble and then to shake, and Frank stared at him in wonder as he sensed the heat reach a fever pitch in Red’s system.

Just from kissing, he thought in awe. Amazing. He worked him harder with his mouth, as he let his hands roam through his hair and down his back. Frank could feel the tension mounting, building…

Matt pulled away, gasping for air, shivering with need. “Y-you,” Matt managed, voice destroyed with how close he was. “What about you?” He reached for Frank’s belt, trying to undo it with shaking hands. Frank firmly took his hands in one of his large ones.

“No, Red. This is about you right now.”

“But-”

“Trust me, I am enjoying this. _A lot_. Relax.” Frank gave him a small smile that he hoped he could sense, and slowly leaned in to kiss him again. He released his hands, which instantly wrapped around him as Red arched up into the contact. He could feel Red relaxing into him, giving into his own body once again. Frank thought that he must have always been worried about his lover’s needs over his own. It fit his personality. It’s how he lived, always putting others first.

Frank stroked his face tenderly, both of them moaning their desire. Red’s voice began to take on a lost quality, his breath coming in pants and he writhed in Frank’s arms, their lips and tongues sliding and caressing. The friction of their mouths was building to a point. Even Frank could feel it, though it wasn’t enough for him to get pulled over the edge.

Red was almost there again, at the edge of the precipice, his limbs shaking and his movements becoming uncoordinated. His eyes opened a tiny bit, like he was looking down through his lashes. The sight of him like this sent a jolt through Frank. He grabbed his head, shifted their position slightly, and tongued into him hard, dragging the flat of his tongue back over the roof of his mouth, his teeth, sliding over both lips in a slow desperate friction.

Red when silent for just a moment. Frank looked at him, their lips pressed together, both tightly gripping one another’s skulls. Then Red went over the edge. Frank watched him coming undone with amazed wonder.

He arched up into Frank, who grabbed him and held him tight. His moan turned into a scream which then went silent, just like the night before. He thrust up once into empty air, and Frank sensed his need for more friction, reaching down and gripping him through the cotton pants. Red pushed against him, his voice coming back long enough to give another moan and his back arched again. Frank let Red push into his hand for the right pressure and speed as he started coming down. At last he was dead weight in his arms, his breath coming slower but still shallow as he drifted.

A moment later Frank could tell he had recovered enough to remember where he was. He tried to sit up and reach for Frank’s belt again, and again, Frank stopped him.

“There’s plenty of time,” Frank reassured him. “Just let me… Let me hold you for awhile. Please.” He looked down at Red’s blissed-out face. “Okay?”

“Okay,” he responded, settling in more comfortably against Frank’s chest, as the larger man caressed his back.

Frank had the sense to treasure this moment.

There would be so many evenings when he knew he’d have to let Red go, let him put on the Devil suit and go be a half-measure hero. For this moment, though, the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen was all his, and he wasn’t letting him go.

  



End file.
